I braced myself for hate last weekend.

On Saturday I drove to the funeral of Marine Cpl. Darrel J. Morris at Ferris High School on Spokane’s South Hill. I knew that the Kansas organization of hateful lunatics who call themselves a church was threatening to make an appearance. They show up at military funerals to claim that the Iraq war is God’s retribution on Americans for accepting homosexuality.

When I saw demonstrators clustered on the sidewalk along Regal that terribly sad morning, I slowed down to read their signs. Then I smiled.

The signs read “Support our troops,” “God bless Cpl. Morris and his sacrifice” and “We are all God’s children created perfect in his image.”

Instead of hatred, this gathering expressed love.

Several days later, I talked to the organizer of the sidewalk demonstrators.

His name is Drew Sweatte. He’s 20 years old, he works at a deli counter in an Albertsons in Spokane Valley and he’s hoping to attend Eastern Washington University to study government and then perhaps Gonzaga law school. He’s also a Ferris graduate like Morris.

But best of all, he embodied the real-life, stereotype-busting nature of this city. I find it all the time.

“I’m a walking, talking oxymoron,” Sweatte said, “being a gay, Christian Republican.”

The night before Morris’ funeral, Sweatte came home from work about 10 p.m. He checked MySpace and found a note. A friend had heard of Westboro Baptist’s threat to protest Morris’ funeral. “You have to do something,” he wrote.

Sweatte, a lifelong Republican activist, jumped into action. With less than 12 hours before the funeral was to start, he spent the night phoning his friends and waking them up. “Call everybody you know,” he told them.

In the end, Sweatte and his friends managed to rally a group of about 12. Most of them were gay; Sweatte was probably the only Republican.

These pro-military gays decided to deliberately downplay the sexual orientation issue. That day, they felt, needed to be all about honoring and respecting Morris’ sacrifice.

It was only about 15 or 20 degrees outside when Sweatte woke up that morning. Yet he arrived at the funeral early and stood outdoors for four solid hours.

People honked their horns as they passed. One Marine brought them soup from Quizno’s to warm them up. A woman rolled down her car window and screamed. “Go back to Kansas.”

“We screamed back, ‘Read the signs,’ ” Sweatte said.

Awhile later, a car pulled into the parking lot, and a woman got out. Sweatte remembers her saying, “I was yelling at you all to go back to Kansas, and you’re the good guys. I just want to say I’m sorry.”

Fortunately, the Kansas bunch never showed up, and Sweatte declared the rally the best he’d ever attended.

“It was just such a human and universal cause,” Sweatte said. “It was a very, very fulfilling experience. I really think we achieved something.”

I do, too. I felt proud of this homegrown Spokane demonstration.

Certainly mine weren’t the only eyes opened that morning.

At the far edge of the Ferris parking lot, I managed to bump up against a life lesson that always delights me. It may be true elsewhere, but it feels like a Spokane phenomenon: The real-life stories of this city always feel richer and more complex than any of the current national stereotypes.

We’re neither red state, nor blue. In the Lilac City, we”re a paler, sweeter hybrid of the two.

Here the Republicans may be gay, the Catholics pro-choice, the Democrats members of the NRA. You just never know. Few of us come neatly packaged, all one voting bloc or another.

Two weeks ago Gov. Chris Gregoire quickly signed into law a measure to limit protests at funerals. It struck me as a smart compromise between two important values: free speech and respect for those who mourn.

Turns out, in this city of walking-talking oxymorons, we grow our own best solutions.

Here you’ll find even targets of hatred willing to brave the cold with love and warmth.